


blood / on the first four knuckles

by outboxed (fallencrest)



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pre-Canon, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fist-fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2012-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/pseuds/outboxed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe the feud they've got going on with the Mayans isn't their only problem but it's probably the easiest to deal with. (Written for the <a href="http://sentential.livejournal.com/5085.html?thread=92637#t92637">SOA comment fic meme</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	blood / on the first four knuckles

Clay's never afraid of a fight, never afraid to get his hands dirty, his knuckles bruised. But Tig's holding him back, gripping his shoulder, his waist. His right-hand is holding tight to Clay’s side, the shirt underneath his cut all there is between Tig's glove and Clay's skin. 

He's pulling Clay back against him, trying to hold steady against his weight, his strength, even though he knows Clay could break his grip if he wanted, if he really wanted, if he was willing to deliver the blow he'd need to force Tig to cut him loose. And this is Clay, Clay who's smart and never picks a fight he can't win, so Tig probably shouldn't be doing this, contradicting him, trying to make him change his mind by pulling him back from the fight with all he's got - but Tig has a bad feeling about this one because knows it's a fight born of anger, not policy. 

_"Let go of me,"_ Clay says, all certainty, each word distinct and drawn out, but there's a bite of anger edging into his voice as he turns his head to look at Tig. 

Tig's voice is softer, almost placatory, when he says "look, I'll do it for you. That's what I'm for, man. Let me do this, let me do this for you," and Clay's not pulling against him as he speaks, not struggling anymore, so Tig's hands are looser, gone a little slack, but he's not moving them because he knows Clay's not given in yet and he can't take the chance that Clay might slip free.

"No." Clay says, "no, this is my fight, you gotta let me do this." 

Tig is almost waiting for the anger again, for Clay to tear his way loose. He'd half expected Clay to drive an elbow sharp into his chest to force him to relinquish grip when this had started, but there's a familiar coldness to Clay's anger now that's almost reassuring.

"Okay," Tig says, "okay," but he slides his hands off slow, fingertips dragging along inches of leather and cotton, like he's still uneasy about this, can't quite bring himself to let go. 

"You sure you're up for this?" the other guy asks, snide and a little taunting. And, seriously, if Clay goes down, Tig is going to take the guy after, honour or no, one-on-one challenge or no, because this guy, this fucking Mexican, he doesn't deserve to be treated with decency, not even a little bit.

Luckily, it doesn't come to that. 

The fight's all quick, hard blows. Clay takes the first few punches, one to the stomach, one to the face, but his stumble backwards (when Tig can hardly resist the urge to go to him, catch hold of him) is just a feint and then Clay swings, takes the other guy down with a single blow, using his weight to bring the guy to the floor. He gets in one clean blow to the face, then another, and then the other guy's crew are yelling and Tig doesn't want this shit to escalate, knows what that'd mean, so he goes to Clay then, ready to pull him off the guy, stop him, take whatever blows Clay wants to deal him for the impertinence of his intervention. 

But Clay rises then, steady and triumphant, grinning a bright red smile, the blood seeping through his teeth only serving to make him look stronger, bigger, more formidable. 

He spits a gob of blood into the guy's face and says, "next time you ain't getting off so easy," 

As Clay walks away, turning his back to them like he has no fear of retaliation, Tig stares down the Mayan crew, like he’s daring them to even think about pulling something.

 

They ride back over to Clay's place and Clay lets Tig follow him inside without saying anything. Only, by the time he's poured himself out a glass of whiskey, he's saying "you should go home."

"No, man," Tig says, "I need to know you're alright, can't just leave."

"I'm fine," Clay says, "go home."

"No," Tig says, again, not too fast or too loud, almost like he's sad that he has to say it. He's shaking his head as he says it, slowly, just a couple of times back and forth, because, no, he can't just let this slide, "what you did back there, that was- it was too big a risk, Clay. The two of us, against all those Mayans. You should've walked away." 

Tig puts a hand on Clay's shoulder as he says that last bit because he needs Clay to know that he means this, that he's serious about it.

"And you shouldn't be questioning my judgement" is Clay's retort and he sweeps Tig's hand off of his shoulder, quick and violent, using the hand holding the now-empty glass.

"You want to hit me, hit me." Tig says, a little less calm to his voice. "I saw you back there. You woulda put me down without a thought, just the way you did him. You're too close to this."

"I ain't too close to anything." Clay says, slamming the glass down on the counter so it makes a noise as loud as the gavel. And something about Clay's words says 'you're the one who's too close', meaning something else, something completely apart from the Sons' feud with the Mayans. "You keep talking like that and I will put you down," Clay says, all cold anger again, "permanently." 

"You're taking this JT shit too hard, man." Tig says, looking down as he speaks, then up again, almost pleading with Clay when he continues. "It wasn't your fault. It was an accident. And all this shit with the Mayans, the guys they killed, that ain't your fault, president's patch or no. You gotta get right with that, Clay. No way this works otherwise."

"I am right with it. If I weren't right with it, Alvarez'd be dead in a puddle of his own blood right now." There's vitriol edging into Clay's voice now, even if there's still that composure to his anger which is worse than any threat he makes. He almost spits his next words: "You're the one who apparently has some issues that need dealing with."

"My only issue is keeping you alive, brother." Tig says, and his hands are up on Clay's shoulders again, both of them this time, and he stares Clay down as he says, "that's all it is, I swear. I just want to keep you whole, way it should be."

"I wish I still believed that shit," Clay says and he sounds bitter, like that's really how he feels, but he doesn't fight it when Tig's hands move down from his shoulders and he clasps Clay in a hug. Clay even returns it, arms gripping around Tig's back, with his hands closed in fists, so Tig can feel Clay's knuckles through layers of leather. 

"I'll see you tomorrow," Tig says, voice quiet, mouth pressed right up next to Clay's ear, like it's a whispered confession and not a standard courtesy, and the intimacy of it almost scares him, even though it's of his own making.

"Yeah," Clay says, letting go slow, and Tig shouldn't be thinking _slower than he needs to_ but he does because he can't help that shit. 

Tig nods a couple of times, says "yeah," right back, still sort of whisper-soft and almost like he's dazed, not stepping away even though neither of them is gripping onto the other anymore. 

And then he breathes deep, turns, walks for the door, only to hear Clay say, loud and confident as always, like he's making some kind of announcement, all his earlier anger gone now and replaced with warmth, "hey, Tig, I really appreciate it, okay? All the shit you do for me, but I gotta do this my own way, you understand?"

"Yeah," Tig says, looking back at Clay, smiling a smile that he doesn't think is quite as real as it ought to be, "Sure, I get that." 

He turns back again to leave, then, walks right out of the kitchen and into the hall, not really thinking about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. As he closes the front door quietly behind him though, he imagines he can hear Gemma Teller on the stairs, that slight creak of floorboards as she goes to check on her man. 

He gets back on his bike, starts up the engine, breathes deep, and finds that it takes a lot to just make sure he doesn't kick the bike into high gear until he's far enough away that Clay isn't going to hear the change in pitch of the engine, so Clay won’t have the chance to think about what Tig might be running to, or running from.


End file.
